


More Than Kisses, Letters Mingle Souls

by fadagaski



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Anal Sex, Arranged Marriage, Blow Jobs, Epistolary, M/M, nebulous medieval setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28246977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadagaski/pseuds/fadagaski
Summary: After twenty years of correspondence, the day of Yusuf's arranged wedding to Nicolò Di Genova has finally come.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 40
Kudos: 216
Collections: The Old Guard Gift Exchange 2020





	More Than Kisses, Letters Mingle Souls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ririsasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ririsasy/gifts).



> Prompt: Arranged marriage AU with Nicky on his knees because they were too desperate to make it to bed. XD
> 
> Title is a John Donne quote.

In the southwestern tower there is a fine oak chest hinged with polished iron, and in it is every letter that Yusuf has received from his betrothed. His thoughts linger on it now, on each opened envelope still containing its fragile missive, as his valet dresses him in his flowing matrimonial robes. 

At the bottom of the chest are the earliest letters, dating back twenty years at least: introductions and coached pleasantries in childish penmanship. He can recite the first one by heart. 

_Dear Yusuf. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope this letter finds you well. My name is Nicolò and I am six years old. Our parents have arranged for us to be married when we are grown. It is my wish to get to know you better. Please write back at your earliest convenience. Signed, Nicolò di Genova, seventh son of Lord Giovanni, Duke of Genova_

At the time, Yusuf had felt equal parts resentful and world-weary at the thought of responding to this little boy, who sounded so very young - never mind the fact that Yusuf had been only nine years old himself. It took weeks, and a stern word from his father, before he deigned to pick up a quill to respond, taking great pains to use his most adult vocabulary, his neatest calligraphy, his best manners. He no longer remembers the content of his reply. 

He wonders if Nicolò has saved that first letter, as Yusuf has. Whether he has kept the rest - the good, and the bad; the polite, and the personal. 

“Which fragrance would you prefer, sire?” asks the valet, proffering three bottles of perfume on a silver tray. 

Yusuf blinks at them, reverie interrupted by worldly considerations for which his mind does not have the capacity. 

“Perhaps this one?” The valet selects a vial, his face perfectly blank as he opens it for Yusuf to smell. It’s nice, woodsy yet subtle, and he nods. Hopes Nicolò likes it, but even if he doesn’t - what will it matter? Nothing can stop this wedding from happening bar some grave natural disaster, a sign from God. 

Casting his mind back, Yusuf tries to remember if Nicolò ever mentioned a preference for certain fragrances. In those early days of sporadic, stilted correspondence, neither of them had been particularly inspired writers. Yusuf learnt that Nicolò liked to play ball games with his brothers, and his favourite dish was seafood linguine, and his favourite colour was blue. In turn, Yusuf shared his fondness for poetry and art, his distaste for vegetables, his preference for robes over the imported jodhpurs coming into fashion. 

Truth be told, in those first years, they wrote _at_ each other, bound far more by parental expectation than mutual interest. They didn’t write _to_ each other until Nicolò hit his eleventh year and Yusuf was into his teens. That changed when Yusuf sent Nicolò a present for his birthday: a painting of the view from Yusuf’s tower window across the harbour with its myriad vessels, docks heaving with merchants and sailors and trade goods. 

_One day in the future, it will be my pleasure to show you around your new home,_ Yusuf had written. 

Nicolò had written back more quickly and candidly than ever before: _Good. I cannot wait to leave this place._

“Your shoes, sire,” the valet murmurs, a pair of embroidered fabric slippers in his hands. Careful not to crease his robes, Yusuf sits on the stool next to the large glass mirror his sister presented him with on his official engagement, when Nicolò turned sixteen and the Genovan diplomatic entourage accepted Yusuf’s proposal on behalf of their absent lordling. There had been a banquet that night, ostentatious and extravagant, as Yusuf’s official betrothal was celebrated with song and dance and mountains of lavish gifts. “Now you must actually take care of your appearance,” Aisha had said with a smirk at Yusuf’s strained smile. 

In the early hours, worse for wine, Yusuf had retired to his tower rooms feeling itchy under his skin, guts twisting unpleasantly, and penned to Nicolò: 

_If I could cancel this whole affair, I would. I hate that I’m trapped in this situation. Who are you to hold my entire life for ransom?_

He sent it immediately, posthaste, and slept until noon the next day. 

Thus began three years of bitter exchange. Nicolò’s reply had been spiteful. Yusuf had returned in kind, and added every sour, vitriolic letter to his chest, a stockpile of ammunition he would need to end the engagement once and for all. 

And then Nicolò’s father died, sparking a great struggle for succession between the eldest brothers, a pair of twins, and all communication ceased for years afterwards. 

“If you could please stand, sire,” says the valet. Yusuf moves mechanically, catching his reflection out the corner of his eye as the incredibly long cloak is affixed at the shoulders. His curly hair is tucked under a large silk turban, and silver rings are slipped over his fingers, and charcoal liner is smeared around his eyes. The man in the mirror looks nothing like Yusuf’s regular reflection. 

Will Nicolò even recognise him? 

Two years ago, when the Genovan civil war ended with each twin deposed and banished, the third brother poisoned, the fourth and fifth killed in battle, and the sixth enthroned, a letter arrived bearing the seal of the seventh son. It was the longest letter Nicolò had ever written, part explanation and part entreaty: 

_The memory of our early familiarity has often kept me comfort during these hard years of war. I am forever grateful for the kindness you showed a little boy stumbling into a world for which no child could truly be ready._

And: 

_Little has engendered hope in my soul these past five years of bloodshed and misery, except for the painting you gave me. Many an hour I have spent lost in its view, imagining you wandering the docks alongside your people, a stick of charcoal in hand and the wind in your hair, though in truth I know not what you look like - nor even if you **have** hair._

And: 

_When last we wrote, there was tension between us, for which I humbly beg your forgiveness. I can only hope that time has softened your feelings towards me that I might again make your acquaintance, not as an ignorant child, nor a youth full of prickly pride, but as a man who desires, more than anything, to be your correspondent again._

Yusuf has never been a fool, but more than one member of his family has accused him of being a hopeless romantic; the flutter of his heart at Nicolò’s sweet words surprised him not at all, even though he moderated it with the knowledge that Nicolò’s fraternal king desired a political and economic alliance, and Nicolò himself sought safety out of the grip of his bloodthirsty relatives. He wrote back, including an honest description of his physical features, and allowed himself to be wooed. For the good of the kingdom, he told himself, and for Nicolò’s betterment too. 

A knock on the door precedes the arrival of Yusuf’s royal entourage: his mother and father, his three sisters, his nephews coming to bear the long train of his cloak, his various uncles and their families. “Are you ready?” his mother asks. 

“Yes,” he says, with far more conviction than he feels. Nerves bubble in his belly like bad champagne. Ready or not, there really isn’t a way to back out now that the nobility from almost every country on the continent has been invited, the whole kingdom has pitched into a week-long festival, and his betrothed is actually here, somewhere in the castle, the closest they have ever been. 

Following his parents out of his room and down the spiralling staircase, his cloak dragging heavily against his shoulders as his nephews struggle to lift it in concert, Yusuf clutches tight to the anticipation that has been building these past two years. With every week’s letter, each more candid than the last, Yusuf got to know Nicolò the man, and learnt a great many things. That Nicolò enjoyed sunrises, and archery, and song. That he doted on his nieces and would miss them most when he left. That he was afraid of his only surviving brother, though not enough that he would marry if he didn’t want to. That he preferred the touch of men, a discovery he made on campaign surrounded by soldiers of all classes, but because of his station, because of his brothers, he couldn’t risk any deep entanglements. 

_I have been lonely for so very long. All my life I have yearned for something unnameable, unfathomable. At night I lay awake for hours thinking of you, aching for your touch,_ Nicolò wrote, only a month ago. _The weeks between my present self and my future self when I am wholly yours is an agony I must endure._

Such inflaming words had the obvious effect on Yusuf, who also spent many a dark hour imagining the touch of another even as he grew increasingly familiar with his own hand. Yet the lust of a young man approaching his wedding day was tempered with anxiety. Through the long years of their communication, Yusuf has grown into a strong affection for Nicolò, whose letters are by turns witty, reflective, arousing, and honest. Yusuf would even say that he loves Nicolò, in some fashion of the word. He resists falling into it further, though. Who a man is by pen is not necessarily who he is in person. 

_I feel I can tell you anything and you will not judge me for it,_ Nicolò once wrote, a year into their renewed acquaintance, and Yusuf had agreed. Whether that will hold through marriage plays on his mind. 

In the spirit of their open acceptance, Yusuf’s last letter to Nicolò, dated two weeks ago, had expressed his nervous doubt. _Understand me: To know you through this medium has been the greatest joy,_ Yusuf wrote. _I worry that our union will mar the camaraderie we have developed. It would grieve me, in gaining you as a husband, to lose you as a friend._

Yusuf rests his hand against his pocket where Nicolò’s most recent - and final - letter resides, the words imprinted like a brand on Yusuf’s memory: _To become your confidante has been my great privilege. Whatever it is you desire of me, I will grant you without question. If my role as your husband begins and ends with friendship, then it is my honour to be your dearest friend. I love the man I have met in these letters, no matter how he loves me in return._

The royal court are arrayed in their finery along the walls of the Great Hall, and they break into the traditional wedding song as Yusuf follows his parents to the raised dais. From the opposite entrance, the Genovan contingent match the pace set by Yusuf’s father, so that they reach the dais at the same time. Yusuf swallows hard, palms growing clammy at his side. One by one, Yusuf’s entourage peels away, and the Genovans do the same until, suddenly, there is only Yusuf and one other. Yusuf stares at him, at long brown hair framing a masculine face: strong cheekbones, generous lips, a large nose, and deep-set, unsettlingly clear eyes staring right back at him. 

After so long, finally, this is Nicolò. 

Nicolò’s mouth quirks at the corners, eyebrows lifting subtly on his forehead as the wedding song booms to a raucous end and someone - probably Aisha - sings deliberately shrill and off-key. Surreptitiously, Yusuf wipes his palms on his robe before he offers his hand to Nicolò, who takes it, and Yusuf can’t help but notice the breadth of it, the thick knuckles and wide, square nails, the little sword nicks scored into the skin. 

Yusuf’s father clears his throat, jolting Yusuf from his study, and he turns to face the king standing on the dais. Nicolò’s hand is warm and slightly damp in his, entirely distracting; he finds he can focus on little else, heart hammering in his ears loud enough to drown out the ceremony droning on. His own voice is muffled when he recites the vows, and he barely catches Nicolò’s, too entranced by the movement of his lips. Then the king is wrapping their wrists together with a soft satin ribbon, tying the knot in the eyes of king, country, and God above, and between one breath and the next, they are married. 

The banquet is more rowdy than the one held for their engagement, but Yusuf feels even more removed from it. Next to him sits Nicolò, their hands still tied. Every movement Nicolò makes tugs at Yusuf’s body. The warmth of Nicolò’s skin sets his nerves tingling. Sitting in the marriage chair, being two big men, their thighs are pressed together from hip to knee. Yusuf has never been so keenly aware of another person, and if it makes him a poor conversationalist, he can at least try to blame it on the noise. 

He is gulping wine from his goblet to soothe his parched throat when Nicolò strokes their fingers together, a simple touch that is somehow electrifying. Yusuf splutters, splashing wine across his lap, to the laughter of the royal table. 

“Ack! Quick, up!” his mother orders. “Get changed before it sets!” 

Lightning fast, Nicolò tugs Yusuf to his feet and they hurry out of the Great Hall, to the general hooting of the crowd, who are well into their cups and show no signs of slowing down. 

At the base of the southwest tower, Yusuf stumbles to a halt, bracing himself against the cold stone wall as he catches his breath. Nicolò slumps beside him, face shining with sweat. 

“I didn’t realise how hot it was in there,” he says. 

Yusuf tries not to spasm at the sound of his voice, but they are literally bound together; Nicolò can’t help but notice. 

“Sorry,” Yusuf mutters. 

Nicolò offers a nervous smile. “It’s alright. A strange day for us both.” 

Such an understatement. Yusuf snorts a laugh through his nose, looking sideways at Nicolò. Given space and time, he can take in the broad shoulders, the narrow waist emphasised by the cut of his short blue tunic, the sturdy thighs wrapped in the woollen hose typical of his country. For all the wine that Yusuf drank at banquet, his throat runs dry again. It’s peculiar to try to match this strange new man in front of him with the person he fell for in letters sent over the better part of two decades. There’s a hazy, mirage-like quality to the experience of looking at Nicolò. To see him is to question what is real. 

Nicolò watches him back with equal intensity in his sea-green eyes. He licks his reddened lips. “Yusuf.” Oh, his voice is lovely; not too deep, lightly accented, with a hint of an enticing rasp. “May I ask a favour?” 

“Hmm?” Yusuf replies vaguely. 

“Please, can I hold you? I know - You didn’t have time to respond to my last letter and I - I’m not expecting anything. I just -” He goes to scuff a hand across his mouth but it’s the one tied to Yusuf, and the movement pulls Yusuf off-balance. “Sorry, sorry! Here, let me -” Nicolò grasps Yusuf’s shoulder with his free hand to keep him upright, and Yusuf grabs a hold of a fistful of Nicolò’s tunic at his waist, and then they are toe to toe, faces inches apart, sharing warm breath. 

“I want you,” Yusuf groans, every part of him straining forward, and to verbalise it crystalises the desire from something nebulous to something concrete, attainable. “Can I?” 

Nicolò stares transfixed at Yusuf’s lips. “Yusuf, please.” 

They fall into each other, mouth against mouth, warm dry slide of sensitive skin until Nicolò parts his lips, shuddering in a gasp of air, and Yusuf opens his mouth to match and there is wet heat suddenly between them. Nicolò moans, hand sliding along Yusuf’s neck to cup his jaw. He goes willingly when Yusuf pushes him against the wall, stepping further into Nicolò’s space, hungry noises growling in his throat as they kiss slick and frantic. 

Down the entranceway and around the corner, someone opens the doors of the Great Hall, releasing discordant noise and music and laughter. 

Yusuf pulls back with a wet sound, takes stock of their predicament: Nicolò slumped against the cold wall, legs spread to accommodate Yusuf between them, his lips red and swollen, pupils blown wide with arousal. _This man is my husband,_ Yusuf thinks, shivering at the possessive lust that strikes him through like lightning. 

Footsteps, stumbling drunk, heading towards them. 

Adoringly, Nicolò strokes the back of his knuckles over Yusuf’s flushed cheek. 

“Come with me,” Yusuf says. He hikes Nicolò upright, then takes off, their bound hands clutching at each other as Yusuf leads them up the spiral staircase, round and round and round until the sound of the celebration is far below, and quiet. 

“Wait, wait,” Nicolò says. Yusuf stops, turns when pulled and goes willingly into Nicolò’s embrace, standing a step above Nicolò and bending to devour his mouth. A hunger roars in Yusuf’s belly and every desperate sound out of Nicolò fuels it. 

Yusuf hauls himself back. “Come on, come on, come on. Up here.” 

A dozen more steps and then Yusuf is kicking open his door. It slams shut when Yusuf pushes Nicolò back into it, chest to chest, biting at the delicate flesh of his throat as Nicolò tips back his head and moans. 

“Yusuf, Yusuf,” Nicolò babbles, free hand grabbing at Yusuf’s turban, fingers of their bound hands clenching together. Yusuf reaches up to tear off his headdress, tossing it carelessly aside. The feel of Nicolò’s fingers in his hair, finally, is utter bliss. He groans into Nicolò’s mouth. Nicolò parts his legs again, Yusuf’s hips jerk forward, and his cock grinds over a mirrored hardness in Nicolò’s hose. 

Yusuf has never wanted anybody more than Nicolò in that moment. 

“Bedroom’s through there,” he mutters, barely breaking the kiss to speak. 

“Too far,” Nicolò says. His fingers leave Yusuf’s hair, burying down between them to squeeze at the tent in Yusuf’s robes. Yusuf chokes on air. “Here. Take me here.” 

Dizzy, Yusuf struggles to wrench his thoughts into order. “No oil.” But the want burns through his veins, setting his whole body alight. He thrusts wildly into Nicolò’s grip, keening when his hand disappears suddenly. 

“I took the liberty.” Panting for breath, Nicolò nevertheless manages a cheeky grin as he waves a little vial of olive oil, one that probably won’t be missed from the royal table. 

Yusuf laughs. “So when you said you weren’t expecting anything to happen -” 

Nicolò twitches a shoulder in half a shrug. “I hoped,” he says. 

And Yusuf has to kiss him for that, for his ingenuity and his honesty and his hope, and while he’s kissing him he palms the vial of oil. “Come on,” Yusuf says, tugging Nicolò over to the plush hearth rug in front of the crackling fire. Nicolò collapses gracelessly, hauling Joe down on top of him with their bound wrists, legs spread for Yusuf to slot between, rutting against the hard length of Nicolò’s cock. They kiss until their jaws are aching, lips stinging with beard burn and the bite of teeth, Nicolò’s free hand clenching at Yusuf’s hip to help him grind into each roll. 

Yusuf kneels up, uses both hands - despite one being bound; Nicolò allows his arm to move as Yusuf needs it - to scrabble at Nicolò’s fastenings, wrestling them down his legs as far as their tied wrists will allow. Then Nicolò’s cock is there, big and dusky and uncut. Yusuf opens his mouth and swallows him down. 

“Holy hell,” Nicolò spits, half-curling over Yusuf’s head before he collapses back again, free hand sinking into Yusuf’s curls. Yusuf sucks with a ravenous hunger, uncaring of the noise, the spit sliding from his lips; even his own throbbing arousal is secondary to the need to make Nicolò writhe. He tries to bring his dominant hand down to help but that’s the one that’s bound and Nicolò’s arm doesn’t twist right. 

Yusuf growls in frustration but he refuses to pull off. 

“Goddamnit. Hang on,” Nicolò says. Then Yusuf’s arm is pulled uncomfortably above his head, and Nicolò gets his teeth involved. In a few seconds, Yusuf has full control of his limb, and uses the opportunity to palm Nicolò’s balls, pressing the pads of his fingertips against the sweaty stretch of skin behind them. Nicolò chokes and gasps. His cock blurts a thick pulse of salty precome over Yusuf’s tongue, which he swallows greedily, licking hard across the eye for more. 

“No, Yusuf, not yet.” Nicolò grips at Yusuf’s shoulders and hauls him up with enviable strength, licks into Yusuf’s mouth and groans at the taste of himself there. 

Yusuf can’t help rutting his hips, chasing the sensation through the heavy material of his robes. “What do you want?” He tilts Nicolò’s face for better access to mouth at the hinge of his jaw. “I’ll give you anything.” 

Nicolò releases a shuddery breath. His hand is shaking when it claps over Yusuf’s where it cups Nicolò’s cheek. He turns his head, kisses Yusuf’s palm, lips at the ball of his thumb, then slides his mouth over Yusuf’s first two fingers, tonguing them hot and wet. Slack-jawed, Yusuf can only watch as Nicolò fellates his hand, dick throbbing under his robes, blood pounding in his veins. Then Nicolò lets them slide free with a slick pop. He guides Yusuf down, past the high hem of his tunic to his bare ass. 

“In me,” he says. 

Yusuf doesn’t have to be told twice. He fumbles for the vial of oil, coats his fingers better than spit alone, and wastes no time circling Nicolò’s rim with one tip. Nicolò sighs, head falling back against the soft rug, tension draining out of him with every orbit of Yusuf’s fingertip. “Yes,” he hisses. “Perfect.” 

Normally, Yusuf likes to bide his time, likes to take his partner to pieces with glacial speed, but he’s barely got two in when Nicolò demands more, and he’s barely got three in when Nicolò says, “Enough. Enough. I’m ready.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes. Let me turn over.” 

Yusuf shuffles back so Nicolò can move, and hikes his robes up over his hips, tugging his underwear down enough to free his aching cock. He’s been rock hard so long his balls hurt, twitching at the sight of Nicolò rolling onto his elbows and knees, cock hanging big and heavy from its nest of curls, plump ass cheeks split down the middle and glistening with oil. “Fuck,” Yusuf says eloquently. 

Nicolò peeks over his own broad shoulder. “That’s the idea.” 

A slathering of oil on his dick, and more poured down Nicolò’s crack, massaged past Nicolò’s rim with three greedy fingers while Nicolò curses and rocks back. Then Yusuf knee-walks between Nicolò’s legs and rubs his cock through the slick, catching on Nicolò’s winking hole. “Ready?” 

“For years, Yusuf,” Nicolò moans. His breath stutters as Yusuf glides inside, pauses, then shunts forward another inch. “Oh God. Yusuf, please, please.” 

Yusuf pets an oily hand across the small of Nicolò’s back. “Shh. Tell me what you need.” 

“More. More. All of you.” 

Inch by agonising inch, Yusuf complies, thrusting into Nicolò’s tight heat. He’s still in his robes, underwear caught at his knees, the fire blazing next to them makes sweat spring up under his arms and at the back of his neck, and Yusuf has never been so turned on in his life as when Nicolò relaxes his inner muscles and Yusuf slides the rest of the way in until he’s buried to the hilt. 

“God. God. Fuck,” he groans. 

“Move, Yusuf.” 

The first thrust is hesitant, just for the sensation. The second tests the angle, the third Nicolò’s resilience. When all Nicolò does is moan for more, Yusuf grabs him by the hips and lets himself go, deep hard thrusts that have Nicolò wailing in seconds, blaspheming like a soldier amid shouts of Yusuf’s name. Yusuf aches with the strength of his arousal, almost a clenching cramp in his belly as he slams into Nicolò over and over. 

In less than a minute, Nicolò bears down like a vice on Yusuf’s cock, chokes out a curse, and comes completely untouched all over the carpet. It is without doubt the most erotic thing Yusuf has ever seen in his life, and just as Nicolò relaxes from the tension of coming, Yusuf picks up the pace, rabbiting inside Nicolò in pursuit of his own release. 

“Do it, Yusuf. Come in me. I want it all. Give it to me.” 

Yusuf has been wound so tight that the first pulse of orgasm hurts and he groans aloud at the sharp slit of it. After that, each successive wave comes easier, and he rolls his hips deep with each pulse, fucking his seed deep inside Nicolò, who reaches back to grip one-handed at Yusuf’s hip, encouraging him in those last few thrusts. They stink of oil and come and sweat, an erotic mix that makes him hungry for more, even now. 

Light-headed and overheated, Yusuf pulls out - strokes an apology over the curve of Nicolò’s ass at his hiss of discomfort - and flops down on the rug with his back to the fire, eyes closed. One side of his face throbs with heat in the comparative cold air. Nicolò lowers himself more carefully until they are side by side facing each other, panting the same humid air, bare knees knocking between them. On a whim, Yusuf grabs hold of Nicolò’s hand and presses it to his hot cheek, sighing at the sensation of cool skin. 

“Husband,” Nicolò whispers, thumb stroking over Yusuf’s kiss-stung lips. “Thank you.” 

Yusuf squints open his eyes, takes in the expression on Nicolò’s face and sees nothing but sincerity and affection. He shuffles forward until their noses brush. “For what?” 

“In your letters, you were so nervous,” Nicolò says. “We had become friends, against all odds, and I would have made myself content with that. But here we are. Friends. Lovers.” He smiles tremulously. “Partners. Equals. After so long, after the war and the pain and suffering, I didn’t think I could be so lucky in this lifetime.” 

And Yusuf knows exactly what Nicolò means. He, too, has been touch-starved and lonely all these years, and he didn’t realise how much until Nicolò opened his arms for him and let Yusuf take what he needed, and give everything that he had to someone who deserves it all. 

Lifting himself onto one shaking arm, Yusuf leans over Nicolò to press a lingering kiss to his chapped mouth, stroking his thumb across the arc of his cheekbone. “If you are mine, then everything I am is yours."

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays ririsasy and to all a good night!


End file.
